Gravel crunches under my boots as I take a step forward. He doesn’t retreat, but his body remains frozen—every muscle locked in shock.
“Long story,bratok.”
His jaw clenches at the old term. "It’s been a while since anyone called me that." Something trembles beneath his anger—grief, maybe. Or relief. Hard to tell which. “How? Talk.”
I exhale slowly. “Aslanov gave the order and left. Didn’t stay to watch. That was his mistake.” The memory flashes through my mind—blood, gunfire, the split-second decision that saved my life. “One of his men got distracted. I took his weapon, killed them both. Made it look like I’d fought and lost.”
Timur nods, his gaze going distant. Reliving that night, probably. The moment he thought he lost me.
Then he moves. Three sharp strides and suddenly his arms are around me, crushing the air from my lungs with the force of it.
“Ya dolzhen tebya ubit’, ty, chortov ublyudok.” His voice cracks against my shoulder. “We thought you were dead. Everyone did,” He pulls back, gripping my shoulders hard enough to bruise. “Mudak.”
“That was the point.”
He scoffs. “Fuck you.”
“Missed you too,pridurok."
For a moment we just stand there, two soldiers who survived when they shouldn’t have. Then Timur steps back, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Why now? Why are you coming out of hiding?”
My jaw tightens. “Aslanov knows I’m alive.”
“Blyad.” The color drains from his face. “Lauren and Hannah—”
“Are in danger. Yes.” I meet his eyes. “I can’t ask you to get involved. All I need—”
His hand cuts through the air, silencing me. “Save it.” Something shifts in his expression—the ghost of the man he used to be surfacing. “You think I’m sitting this one out? Watching you die a second time?” He arches an eyebrow. “What’s the plan?”
Something loosens in my chest. The faint pull of a smile—unfamiliar after years of staying dead.
I grip his shoulder. “It’s good to have you back,tovarishch.”
***
I unlock the door to my apartment and step into silence.
The place is a shell. Beige walls. Basic furniture. Nothing that would draw attention or suggest anyone actually lives here. A rat would turn its nose up at this place.
I drop my keys in the bowl by the door and head for the kitchen. The kettle sits on the counter next to a jar of instant coffee—the only luxury I’ve allowed myself, though calling it luxury is generous. Tastes like melted plastic, but it’s all I have.
I could have made this place livable. Four years is plenty of time to turn these bare walls into something that resembles a home. But deliveries draw attention. Neighbors notice. And I can’t afford to be noticed.
Besides, can you really call it home when it’s just a surveillance post?
The apartment directly across from Lauren's. Seventeenth floor, perfect sightline into her living room. That’s all this place is—a vantage point to ensure my girls stay safe.
I spoon coffee granules into a chipped mug and wait for the kettle to boil.
Torture.
That’s what this is.
Watching Lauren move through her days, watching Hannah grow from an infant into a little girl—her first steps, her first words, all observed through a window like I’m some kind of ghost haunting their lives.
Sometimes I wonder if dying would have been easier.
